


Letters from Nowhere

by altshiver



Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: F/M, between chronicles and legends, i'm really not sure what to call this, some timeline shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4492806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altshiver/pseuds/altshiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Told in the form of letters from my OC, Sikeen, to Raistlin, Letters from Nowhere describes the time she spent in the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas during the two years between Chronicles and Legends. Timeline is as close to canon as I could keep it but still not perfect (see notes).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I wish you could see me now. I wish you knew that I lurk in your tower still, and that I call it yours to this day, and that I wear your robes and I’ve kept your hairbrush. I remember all the crannies where I curled against your chest, burning oil into the night, feverishly reading spell books as though the act could save my rotten soul. I remember the resigned note in your coughs, the way you’d come entirely to terms with your broken body. 

I just wish you could _see_ me, surrounded by things I stole from you in an attempt to keep you near. I’ll never worship you as a god—I stand by that, still. Our Black Moon knows I will make you worship _me_ or hate _me_ as you stew in the absence of these pretty things. Adoration and loathing—they aren’t so different, two sides of the love-hate coin you tossed at me every morning. Hate me. Hate me harder.

But let me start at the beginning. Let me bleed out all the things we so carefully kept under wraps, you and I. All those clandestine thoughts we decided on one frigid night never to tell, even to each other. 

I’d been told the Conclave took days, sometimes weeks to determine what to do with people like me, but I was made to wait seven moons in detainment. I was a challenging case, I suppose. Blood on my hands, a tiny inn bedroom in one of my names stuffed with stolen goods, and a paper trail connecting me, in perfect, cinematic fashion, to the Advocates of Keroessa. Beyond the obvious guilt was the fact that Paladine—in the form of a man speaking in a shared dream six Conclave members had witnessed, had allegedly stepped in on my behalf. I was more than willing to call it a lucky coincidence. Exceptionally lucky. Would the Lawful Lord of Good really intervene to keep me breathing? Absolutely not. But gods, I’d take it.

So the “challenging” part for that doctrinaire old group was that they couldn’t kill me, despite it being abundantly clear that I deserved death. They were silent as I was escorted into their meeting room, a massive chamber my spirit loved but my mind had learned to despise. Damn my elven nature, damn the affinity for these wide-open places, damn love and faith and all things sweet. My cuffs jingled as I shifted my weight. _Send me somewhere dark and wretched. I won’t be there for long._

“You…” The red-robed fellow who was evidently in charge glanced down at some document. 

Leave it to a mage to forget a person’s name after seven months of arguing about them. Arrogant, detestable creatures. You and I are no exceptions, I suppose?

“You, Sikeen Tirmedhi, are hereby sentenced to a lifetime of imprisonment in the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas, in the service of the Master of the Tower, whomever they may be.” He cleared his throat. “Effective… immediately.”

Whomever they may be? I scoffed quietly. It was no secret that the Conclave had a special dislike for you. Most likely, they found me just wicked enough to throw your way as a kind of insult. Excellent. I’d heard you disliked them right back; you’d probably release me. 

How wrong I was.

I widened my eyes in a fearful gape and stumbled back a bit, as though the words might be a palpable strike. You’ve got to stroke mages’ egos if you want to get past them. 

“No, not—!” I started.

But the guards were already upon me, sparing me from further theatrics. I made sure to struggle valiantly as they dragged me out of the Tower, into the freezing rain to some winged beast that would apparently bring me to your winding spire. The creature resembled a small wyvern with longer legs, perhaps, but it pawed at the ground and whinnied like a horse. Maybe it really was a wyvern. I wouldn’t have known; I'd never seen one. But to this day, I wonder.

I’d assumed I was going to have to brave the height, and the thought made my stomach knead itself over. But then a black-robed woman behind me put a hand on my shoulder, which I couldn’t fight off due to the handcuffs, and whispered something incoherent in that mumbling mage’s tongue I didn’t know then. The last thing I remember before passing out was a pang of regret for not attempting to pick the cuffs’ lock.

In my sleep, I became vaguely aware of moving about a vast expanse, cold air whipping against my skin, clawing at my nerves. They woke me as soon as we had landed, the cuffs digging viciously into my wrists. I knew my hair would take a gallon of something slick to soften it after the windswept trip, and something about that planted another bitter seed in my chest. That hair protected me; you know how it was. I cut it short for a while but now it’s long again, and I look a little like an elf once more. As much as I ever did, anyway.

We arrived on some kind of balcony, the black robe pulling her hood lower over her eyes. I can't imagine what kind of excitement she held for meeting you, the mysterious Sly One who hadn't been seen in over a year. The world had taken on a blurred, chaotic quality. I realize now it must have been vertigo that sent me to my knees. I don’t know how long I vomited for; the acid of my empty stomach hurled across the glistening tile. I thought absently of how the surface was oddly bright, considering the horrific darkness I’d heard the Tower contained. But it was a balcony, and Solinari was bright that night, so surely it was a matter of coincidence that my first memory of your home was at least a little lovely. 

Note: it also smelled like vomit.

The black robe wrenched me to my feet and I subsequently pulled myself away. By then, I’d had it with mages tugging me around. Wiping rainwater from my eyes, I cast her a bladed glare and battled the shiver taking hold of my bones. I had pride back then, and it burned in the face of everything. I clung to my dignity, squaring my shoulders in my tattered prison shift. I was ready to follow her without a fight, but I would do it on my own accord.

But then the double doors swung wide open, both at once, and I saw that eerie blue light of the Staff of Magius. The way it glowed through the rain, as though designed by a god to guide a ship back to shore. I doubt a storm ever existed that could block out that shine.

If only I had the words to impress upon you the degree of majesty you held back then. You strode forward to just before the edge of the black stone awning, flaming ire like I’d never seen before, visible on your face for a single moment. You buried it after that. Velvet robes like a king’s mantle, alive as the wind, as though they existed only to adorn you on that raging night. If you held a shred of curiosity for me, or anything even remotely resembling pity, none of it showed. You wore a perfect mask, calculated fury. And I stood on my own, meeting your gaze with my own uncaring stare.

(At the time, I thought: _Damn it all. Let your beauty scream and shine like a falling star._ I would be stronger, I would be more cunning, I would leave you like a princess in your tower as soon as the opportunity arose; I remember you so gloriously only in hindsight, now that my grit and zeal have waned. I flatter you too much, don’t I?)

“For your service, to do with what you wish,” shouted the black robe over the storm. “The Conclave sends a Silvanesti elf.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, just enough that I could tell. 

“I don’t recall requesting a slave,” you snapped. 

And I had to resist the temptation to roll my eyes, because—gods—I had never served as a slave, and I never intended to. 

“Consider it a gift,” she replied. I could hear the saccharine grin in her voice, that mocking tone you brushed off remarkably well. “The caveat—she is not to leave the Tower.”

“No one leaves the tower. No one _enters_ it, either,” you said. “Remove yourself, or my Live Ones will bury you in the Grove.” 

She raised a brow and swung her leg over the wyvern-beast. In the darkness I could have sworn she shrugged at you, as though her immediate obedience did not completely betray her fear. I couldn’t hear the click of the lock over the storm, but my handcuffs loosened suddenly and I was able to thrust the chains at the wyvern’s feet just before she took off into the night. Horror gripped me at the thought of arriving in a new prison, but it was followed with a surge of excitement for the thrill of escape as I watched her soar away. That creature’s wings beating the sky was an invitation; I would follow that cursed thing. I could have let out a battle cry—I imagined a long, wrathful note—were it not for your presence. 

By the time I whirled around, you were already disappearing into the Tower. _Ah, the bowels of the beast,_ I thought, charging after. Bare feet icy against the tile, the sparse hair on my legs standing straight up, I didn’t speak a word until you stopped before the door. You curled one hand into a fist, your back to me, and I took the moment to wring out my soaking hair. The water cascaded to the ground, a too-loud noise in the leaden quiet.

You must know that I saw you as an infant. Despite your height, despite your regality, no matter what aura of power exuded from your every motion—I thought of you as young, and I had no impression of your ability to see beyond your time. In that moment, you were a great and splendidly dressed child I was to handle with special care, with expertise I would have to feign. 

“You speak Silvanesti, do you not?” you asked in Common, glaring at the water pooled on the tile as you turned to look at me properly, finally. 

I nodded slowly, drinking you in, your skin with its gold sheen of lore. It truly was _lore_ that surrounded you, and I struggled to remember it all then. I couldn’t see the hourglass eyes from the distance, in the poor light. I scrutinized you in an attempt to find them, and failed. 

“Then you will call me _shalafi_ ,” you ordered, with the cavalier confidence of a man spoiled by the obedience of those around him. Or maybe a man who simply didn't have anyone around him?

“I have no _shalafi._ ” 

I tried to say it respectfully—really, I did. Irritating you wasn’t in my best interest, but that biting tone had to sneak out then. How dare you ask me to call you my _master_? I refused to have one; I always had and always would. Those who attempted to master me wound up with needles in their throats.

“Then you’ll starve here, and waste away. Pity,” you replied.

My temper flared again. Of course you were as arrogant as the rest. Naturally, I had the privilege to be as arrogant as I liked, but you had no such right, you greed-ridden human filth. 

“They’ve sent me with the intention of offending you,” I pointed out. 

“That much is clear.”

I opened my mouth to set terms; I truly believed I was in a position to be doing so. Pride and rage make a heady cocktail (but you must know that by now). You went on, interrupting.

“If you think you’ll earn your freedom based on my clashes with the Conclave, you’re mistaken. It is in your best interest to do as I say, and I say: make yourself scarce.” You sighed, staring coolly at the doors behind me. “I expect to see you briefly, six times a day. In the kitchen, you’ll find a large bag of leaves—”

“I am _not_ serving you, wizard!” I snapped, my voice hoarse for some reason I couldn’t determine.

You paused.

“On the contrary. As I was saying, a large bag of leaves with which you will brew a potion for me, much like the way one prepares tea—”

“I have no plans of doing what you say, and I guarantee you, slave of the Abyss—” I came close, determination sizzling. “—you’ll have me here for barely the blink of an eye. I’ll make myself scarcer than you or your damned Conclave expect.”

I was alight, and you were placid, rolling your eyes. My hand ached to strike you. You and your human youth, inferior to me by every natural law. I was an elf, and you were a sickly man, sworn to the god of what I then considered a cowardly art. I was in my second century, and you were—what, barely thirty? Not even? No one could blame me for nursing my ego.

The door behind you was barely ajar; I stormed past and let the dim hallway take me where it would. I’m still not certain if you followed or not, but as I passed by closed doors in the corridor, past sconces lining the narrow stairwell, I had the creeping impression of being watched. I know now what it was—what they all were—but the crawling fear dragged me all the way to the bottom of the steps, to the base of the tower, to a musty, rotting smell at the heart of my new cage. It was the kitchen.

That potion really smelled like a dead thing, Raistlin.


	2. Chapter 2

The way I imagined it: you returned. I came back to life when you exhaled as you held me in your arms. I'd close my eyes against the velvet of your cloak, which felt like safety after months of feeling sick with danger. Which smelled like you, like spices and roses, like weary travels and the need for a hot meal. The explanation for your disappearance I always wanted, I finally received. I un-became the ghost, un-became the dark angel I felt like in your absence, lurking in your tower, sleeping fitfully in your bed, painting the views from the tallest spire on canvases that did nothing for me, brought me no joy to create or behold. There was precious little for me to focus on while you were out, but I tried to occupy myself with these mundane things--cooking, organizing, investigating the place's dusty corners. But you came back. You always did. 

The way it happened: I never saw you again. Now I fear it's too late, since I'm not there anymore, and if you wanted to find me I'm certain you would have by now. All these years between us like miles, like walls and walls of flames. 

The way it  _really_  happened: your apprentice was there when you were not. And I'm not sorry, since you're not sorry. I'm not alone, and you're no longer dissatisfied with things. That's what I figure, anyway. 

But my heart still clenches when he speaks your name. Yes, we talk about you. We tell tales like we're speaking of some rural legend; you're as good as will-o-wisp in the highlands. Something bittersweet for rainy days, for starry nights. For nostalgia, for the aches we both bear. 

I won't ask you to come back. I won't beg you to waste your time. I'm happy now, but gods, I miss being lonely with you. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry that this isn't really "traditional" fic. I don't think it's the type of thing people will be interested in reading. But I guess it's what I'm in the mood to write, and I have a hard time imagining writing it another way. It is a rewrite, but the original version had all kinds of issues and I decided a scrap-and-redo was the best option.
> 
> Also, I've tagged this as "some timeline shenanigans" because Astinus states that no one entered or exited the Tower during the two years between Chronicles and Legends. I'm totally aware of that. It's a shameless retcon, really.
> 
> EDIT: I highly doubt I'll continue writing this because the premise is so ridiculous. Uh.


End file.
